Take the Lead
by Ellipsis the Great
Summary: An attempt to put into words my idea of what the relationship between Jim and Bones might be like, how it unfolds, etc. Jim/Bones, obviously.


_**Take the Lead**_

_A one-shot by Ellipsis the Great_

_**Summary**__: An attempt to put into words my idea of what the relationship between Jim and Bones might be like, how it unfolds, etc. Jim/Bones, obviously._

_**Disclaimer:**__ Star Trek belongs to J.J. Abrams, Gene Roddenberry, and all those other cool cats who own it. All I own is the plot!_

_**Rating:**__ T_

It starts the Christmas after their first semester sharing an apartment (their second year at the Academy). Jim is in the kitchen cooking breakfast, because it's Christmas morning and Bones has been working all night and Jim figures everyone should spend Christmas morning with someone, and he isn't Bones' daughter or anything but maybe he'll do for now.

He's putting the last of the bacon on a plate when the door opens. He is about to yell at Bones to grab a drink and go to the table when he hears the sound of a briefcase falling to the floor and what is probably Bones' back hitting the door.

Frowning, he puts everything down and goes to the front of the apartment. "Bones?"

Bones is slumped against the door, one arm wrapped around his stomach while his other hand covers his face, but his shoulders are shaking and there are tears dripping from his chin and, holy shit, Bones is fucking _crying_.

"Bones?" He says again, approaching slowly and putting a tentative hand on the man's shoulder.

Bones shakes his head and lets out a choked sound.

"Bones, seriously, talk to me." Jim says, putting his hands on Bones' biceps.

"I fucking _hate_ holidays." Bones says suddenly, running his hand through his hair. "_Christ_."

"What happened?"

Bones shakes his head, but Jim gives him one of Those Looks that means he is going to be annoying until he finds out what's going on, so he leans back against the door and takes a deep, shaky breath. "This woman and her kid came in, both near death. Some assholes decided it was a good night to attack a _woman_ and her _child_. And…Christ, they never tell you you're gonna have to make choices like that."

"Choices?" Jim repeats.

"The kid or the mother?" Bones asks. "I've gotta…_I've_ gotta make that decision, Jim. I had to. We didn't have enough people to do surgery on both of them."

"Oh, God." Jim says.

"The mother had a higher chance of surviving." Bones says, covering his face again. "Christ. _Christ_. I killed a kid on Christmas. I killed a kid on Christmas, and she was so beautiful, and she couldn't have been older than Joanna, Jim, and I killed her." He lets out a helpless, heartbroken sob and tries futilely to stop himself from crying again.

"Bones, no." Jim says, grabbing Bones' face and pressing their foreheads together. "No. _You_ didn't do anything wrong. You were doing your job. Those assholes who attacked them are the ones who killed her, and don't you dare think anything different."

Bones shakes his head, pulls away long enough to move his forehead to Jim's shoulder, and says, "I just don't want to make any decisions for the next eighteen hours."

Jim is quiet for a moment, and motionless other than reaching up to put his arms around Bones. Then he pushes Bones away so that they can look each other in the eyes. "So can I make decisions for you?"

Bones' eyebrows furrow together. "What fool thing are you thinking, now?"

"I'm thinking you need to let go, and I'm good at taking control." Jim says, letting his voice drop an octave. "Command track and all that."

A look of realization comes over Bones' face, followed by a look of disgust. "I cannot believe you. I _killed a child_ and you want to fuck me."

"It's…it makes sense and you know it. You can just lie back and let me do all of the work, and for a little while maybe you'll forget. And there's endorphins and stuff with sex, right? You'll feel better."

"I'll feel better if I go to sleep—"

"You'll have nightmares." Jim says. "And drinking just makes everything worse, you know that."

"Jim—" There's that warning tone in his voice, the one that doesn't mean 'stop or else I'll hypo you until you die' so much as 'stop or I'll give in.'

Jim takes Bones' face in his hands, forcing eye contact. "You aren't making the decisions, anymore, Bones."

Bones stares at him, at his eyes, like he's searching for something, and he must find whatever he's looking for because he nods and whispers, "I'm not making the decisions, anymore."

Jim surges forward and kisses him, and he only stiffens for a second before his body becomes pliant and he gives in.

(I MAY PAGEBREAK ON YOU)

Spock might think, that last time Jim takes the Kobayashi Maru, that Jim doesn't take it seriously.

But this, the first time Jim takes the test? Bones comes to know better than to think any such thing.

They're both quiet on the way back to their shared apartment—Bones generally lets Jim do all of the talking unless he's got something to bitch about, and he assumes that Jim is pouting at the moment because he hasn't done any talking at all.

And then they get to their apartment. The door closes. Jim lets out a sound like a dying animal and slumps into Bones' side, clutching to him like a drowning man might hold onto a rope.

"You're dead, Bones." He says before Bones can ask what's wrong. "You're dead, and Uhura's dead, and all of those other people are dead, dead, dead."

"It was just a simulation, Jim." Bones says.

"Based on something that could actually happen." Jim says. "And if it had you'd be dead, and it'd be all my fault because I couldn't think of a way—"

"No one ever thinks of a way, Jim." Bones says. "It's the Kobayashi Maru, for Christ's sake."

"_I_ should've thought of a way." Jim turns so that he can put his arms completely around Bones, burying his face in the crook of his best friend's neck. "There's no such thing as a no-win situation."

"Aw, kid." Bones sighs and hugs him back, pressing his face into Jim's hair. "You feel too much for this job, Jimbo."

"That's what's gonna make me a good—no, a _great_ captain." Jim's eyes flutter closed and, somehow, he holds onto Bones even tighter. "Making decisions like this is hell."

Bones is quiet for a moment. Then, softly, "Want me to make decisions for you for the next hour or so?"

Jim lets out a breathy laugh and says, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

(I THINK THESE PAGEBREAKS ARE PRETTY SAFE)

"Jim." Bones' eyes are closed, his breathing returning to normal, the sweat drying to his skin.

"Mm?" Jim, who was staring at the ceiling, turns half-lidded eyes to his best friend.

"Would you…make decisions for anyone?" Bones asks carefully.

"I'm Captain of the USS _Enterprise_, Bones." Jim is just as careful, but adds a lilt to his voice that is meant to diffuse some of the tension that is seeping into the air. It doesn't. "I have to make decisions for everyone, now."

"You know what I mean." Bones' eyes open to give Jim a disapproving look.

Silence descends for a moment. "Not this way, Bones. I wouldn't make decisions for anyone but you, this way."

Bones hand seeks out Jim's, threading their fingers together. "I wouldn't, either."

Jim thinks that is the single most flattering and frightening thing anyone has ever said to him, and closes his eyes so that he doesn't have to look at the man lying next to him, anymore.

(DON'T PANDER TO ME, PAGEBREAK)

At first it is like this:

They call it 'making decisions for each other,' and one of them always takes charge. Sometimes both of them need to let go, so they talk for a while before one of them concedes that, yeah, the other one had a way shittier day.

When Jim is in charge, it's all about passion and impulse and this feels good so we'll do it more often but that feels bad so we won't do it at all. It's fast and hard, and Jim's all about switching things up so sometimes he's a topper, pushing Bones into the bed or the headboard or the couch, and sometimes he bottoms from above, thighs shaking and head thrown back as his body tries to swallow Bones up a little more with every downward thrust.

Bones is different, of course. Bones leaves the experimentation to Jim, but by the fourth time he has been in charge he knows just where to touch to drive Jim crazy; just how to kiss, bite, scratch, thrust. He is methodical, but can innovate at the drop of a hat if he or Jim have been injured, or if one of them is a little more tired than usual, or if one of them just isn't in the mood for something. He's better at picking up on subtle cues—which doesn't seem right given his usual brusque manner, but Jim has come to understand that Bones just usually doesn't give enough of a damn to censor himself in any sense of the word—and, sometimes, Jim even catches him incorporating something from a night when Jim was in charge.

Strangely, although sometimes Jim's nights end in more laughter or pain than sex, and sometimes Jim is totally sure Bones has just given him one of the best orgasms of any of his (incredibly extensive) sexual exploits, neither of them could even begin to pick which nights they prefer more.

(SPACE IS DISEASE AND DANGER WRAPPED IN DARKNESS AND PAGEBREAKS)

One night, it's like this:

It is an abnormal night—abnormal in that it is actually completely normal, which on the _Enterprise_ isn't normal at all. Nothing has exploded, no red shirts have died, Jim hasn't caused an interplanetary war, Spock has only used the word 'fascinating' a grand total of two times, Chekov hasn't declared that anything was invented in Russia, and Bones hasn't used a single hypospray.

Jim should just let it be and call it a good night.

Of course, he's Captain James T. Kirk of the USS _Enterprise_, so he can't just let it be because that would go against his principles or something. Or, you know, make sense.

So after his shift has ended he goes to Bones' room, steals Bones' shot and downs it, grabs Bones by the collar, and kisses him before the first syllable of Bones' customary "Goddammit, Jim!" can leave those far-too-kissable lips.

And, hell, they've never been able to keep their 'witty banter' out of the bedroom, so it's only natural that it translates so easily from the verbal into the physical.

This time it goes far beyond anything they've ever done before, in the metaphorical sense. In the physical sense, it's just…different. They're used to arguing over whether or not Jim has to stay in the bio-bed for that extra couple of hours to heal when he really needs to be on the bridge; whether Jim should base his decisions on Spock's logic, or his own intuition, or Bones' insistence on compassion; whether Bones should risk himself by going down on the planet stricken with a plague the likes of which no one's ever seen before much less cured, with inhabitants who are just as likely to kill him for failing as they are to thank him for trying.

Now Bones is taking charge of the kiss, his fingers tangled in Jim's hair, desperation tingeing his every move as Jim rolls them over and rubs a knee against Bones' hard on, scrabbling to undress the both of them as quickly as possible but at the same time, which of course isn't at all feasible. And then, somehow or other, they _are_ both undressed and Jim is hiking Bones' leg over his shoulder only to have Bones hook that leg around his neck and flip them in a move that makes Jim wonder (not for the first time) just how much or little Bones really knows about fighting, all grumbling aside.

Eventually one of them wins out—it's Jim, this time, and the next time, but then Bones gets a turn. It's more like he snatches a turn right out of Jim's grasp, actually, but he gets one either way.

And it's different, yeah, but it's the same, too, and that shouldn't make sense except that somehow it actually does. And sometimes one of them still lets go and lets the other one 'make decisions' for him, but more and more often they're taking control of each other, and that's nice, too.

Through all of this, neither of them is sure just how far this…_thing_ between them is going to go.

(WELL, I HATE TO PAGEBREAK THIS TO YOU, BUT STARFLEET OPERATES IN SPACE)

One day they wake up in bed together like they have every day for what doesn't seem like a very long time, but when they look at each other—at the lines on their faces, the gray in their hair, the wisdom in their eyes—they realize it's been a _damn_ long time.

They don't mention that, of course, because they figure the other one's known all along.

"The mission's gonna end, soon." Jim says.

"Starfleet's been ragging on me to retire from the field." Bones says.

"They want me to be an Admiral." Jim groans, throwing an arm over his eyes.

"Teach snot-nosed kids how to be the best goddamned doctors in this godforsaken nothingness." Bones snorts and shakes his head.

"And Captains."

They're quiet, then, for a while.

"I don't know if I want to retire, Bones." Jim says. "I love it up here."

"I don't know how much longer I can stay." Bones says.

"We can decide for each other." Jim says with a weak smile.

Bones blinks slowly, then scowls. "You'd tell me to go and I'd tell you to stay, and you'll die without me up here to kick your ass into gear and I'll die without you around to make sure I don't drink myself to death."

"So."

"So."

More silence.

"You know I'll follow you anywhere, Jim." Bones whispers. "I always have."

Jim takes a shaky breath, but this time when he smiles it is strong and resolute and maybe even a little bit eager. "I guess it's about time I lead you somewhere you want to go."

(I GOT NOWHERE ELSE TO GO, THE EX-WIFE TOOK THE WHOLE DAMN PAGEBREAK IN THE DIVORCE)

This is how things are:

Two old men walk to the Academy cafeteria every morning. One of them fusses and grumbles at the other for eating fatty foods, and the other rolls his eyes and says that he's eaten like this for so long there's no real reason for him to stop, now.

After breakfast has finished, one of them goes to class while the other either follows and sits in on the class or goes to his office. When that class is over, they switch. Then they go to lunch, and then the same thing happens in the afternoon, and then they go home.

Both men's classes are always—_always_—at their maximum capacity for students. Any student who takes one of their classes knows two things:

The first is that both of them demand perfection. They don't take excuses, they don't believe in giving breaks, and while one of them is all pursed lips and quiet reprimands when he's disappointed, the other is full of expletives and scowls from his eyebrows to his mouth and all the way down to his clenched fists.

Second, both men are always ready and willing to help in any way possible if a student just _asks_. On the days when they go to their respective offices instead of sitting in on each other's classes, they are going through their e-mails, answering questions, setting up appointments, meeting students for said appointments, writing recommendation letters, and just about anything else they can do to make sure that all of their students not only pass the class, but pass it with as close to a perfect score as either man ever gives (only five or less people have ever gotten a ninety-eight in any of either man's classes; no one has ever gotten higher than that).

(There is a rumor at the Academy that getting through a class with Admiral Kirk and/or Admiral McCoy is harder than being a Starfleet Captain. No one has ever said whether or not that is actually true, but everyone who has gotten through a class with a B or above has gone on to do amazing things.)

One morning Jim comes to breakfast alone, and gives people funny looks when they ask if Admiral McCoy isn't feeling well, like he has no idea who they're talking about. He eats a salad with his nose wrinkled the entire time, and when he finishes he chucks it in the bin with a lot more force than is absolutely necessary.

He goes to Bones' classroom, waits for everyone to sit down, and says, "Admiral McCoy passed away this morning at oh-three hundred. There will be a wake on Thursday from seventeen hundred to twenty-one hundred, and the funeral will be on Friday at twelve hundred. Admiral McCoy's classes will be cancelled for the rest of the week, but a replacement will be in on Monday morning, so you'd sure as hell better be here at oh-nine hundred sharp. Class dismissed." Then he turns and leaves, trudging to his office while the students sit in shock.

He sends a mass e-mail that reads simply what he said to the students, then begins going through his inbox like he does every day—answers questions, writes a recommendation, proof-reads a final draft.

On Thursday, he sits slumped in a chair next to the casket, frowning at the floor as people walk by and try to bring him out of his thoughts so that they can give their condolences.

Not even Spock—who is an Ambassador, now—can do so.

Friday comes, and there are so many people that there is a crowd almost a quarter of a mile wide outside of the auditorium where the service is being held. Joanna is sitting on the front row, in between her husband and her oldest son (she has two, Leon and Henry, and a daughter, Jamie). Spock is on the front row, too, sitting ramrod straight in his chair next to his adopted daughter, Irene. Behind him sits Admiral Leonard James Akaar, whose hand is held tightly in his mother's.

In spite of the massive number of people present, there is complete silence when Jim steps up to the podium. He blinks out at the crowds like he's not sure what he's seeing, and there isn't a person there who doesn't notice how dull his eyes have gotten, or how slumped his shoulders are. His hands are white as they grip the edge of the podium, and when he begins speaking his voice shakes.

"I met Bones almost eighty years ago on a shuttle from Iowa." He says finally. His eyes are misty, and he smiles for a moment before the smile falters, trembles, and falls. He takes a sharp breath. "Since then, this is…this is the first time he's ever gone somewhere without me. I didn't…I'm the reckless one, so I always thought I'd be the first one to die. I don't…I don't know what to do without him here." A pained expression comes to his face and he falls into the podium, one hand coming up to clutch at his chest. "Bones, my heart hurts."

And then he crumples to the floor, shudders once, and dies.

The End.

_A/N: The whole thing kind of reads like two stories that have been shoddily melded together, but I like it. Although…it seems like more and more of my stories are driven by prose instead of dialogue, and I'm not sure how I feel about **that**…hmmm…_


End file.
